BBC Sherlock: Parlor Tricks
by Wynsom
Summary: Sherlock and John acquire an understanding about each other whilst solving the mystery of a man who stepped "back into his own house to get his umbrella and was never more seen in this world." Based on an "unfinished tale" referenced by Watson in ACD's "The Problem of Thor Bridge," this story is set more than a year into the partnership of the BBC characters. All disclaimers apply.
1. Chapter 1

**PARLOR TRICKS**

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."  
― Arthur Conan Doyle from _The Boscombe Valley Mystery_

_Special thanks to the ever-lovely englishtutor and the intriguing Honourable for their support and encouragement of my writing._

* * *

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had been waiting at least five minutes on Stockwell Park Road in front of a block of contemprary yellow-brick flats for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson when their cab finally pulled up. As soon as they were within earshot, he fed them the tantalizing fact he just couldn't hold in any longer.

"This man just went back to get his brolly, and no one has seen him since."

Standing in the carpark, Greg suppressed a grin as he observed the unlikely partners walking toward him. The singular genius, whom the DI had regularly consulted for many years on the most difficult cases—well before the partnership with Watson began—was dressed in his unique style: tousled raven curls falling in wild abandon over the flashy upturned collar of his black greatcoat, which billowed open as he sauntered over. It amazed Greg how Sherlock's appearance was a total contradiction of the tightly wound man, who not only closed off his emotions with detachment, but who mastered off-putting, haughty criticisms about everything and everyone. _M__aybe he knotted his scarf too tight, _the DI thought. Aloof and disdainful behavior had ensured Sherlock had remained friendless for all the years Lestrade had known him—until John came along.

But then, who couldn't get along with John Watson? The organized, ex-army doctor, buttoned up in his Haversack jacket, close-cropped blond hair salted with slivers of grey, was the opposite of 'uptight.' Unless justifiably riled, he usually showed the greatest civility, and was completely likeable in every way. They were indeed an odd pair, and it tickled Greg to realize they had been successfully working together for well more than a year despite their differences.

"Hullo, Sherlock. John." Lestrade's gravelly voice didn't betray his amusement. He had no interest in setting Sherlock Holmes off before he had had a chance to entice him with a new mystery.

Sherlock gave the DI the slightest nod before becoming distracted by large flocks of chunky house sparrows that swooped and chirped their spring-songs in the chilly, but pleasant, morning air. Immediately, he pulled out his mobile and inputted a search.

"Off duty, Detective Inspector?" Unlike his brooding partner, John greeted Greg with an easy handshake and earnest eye contact.

"Yeah, I know. It's Sunday. Sometimes I do take a day for myself. This is turning out _not _to be one of them." He chuckled with a lightheartedness brought on by the early May sunshine.

"Thought I'd bring you boys on board," the off-duty Met Detective Inspector continued. "It's a mystery, but after their preliminary investigation, the Department can't classify it as crime scene."

"Sparrows!" Sherlock had narrowed his eyes, spotting the nests of the resilient little birds known for colonizing tiny crevices in buildings. "As far as I could see," he mumbled to no one in particular, "the apartment structure and nearby buildings are _infested _with them."

"Didn't invite you here for twitching, mate!" Greg jested, quite surprised by the consulting detective's apparent interest in the feathered frenzy overhead than the case at hand.

"Tell me you're not taking _stupid _lessons from Anderson. House sparrows are not _rare_ birds, Lestrade," Sherlock countered with smooth logic, "in fact far from it. They are all too common and prolific. Rather, I'm here at your request to answer a question. But first I have a few of my own: This man went back to get his umbrella, you say. Went back where _exactly_?"

"Good. You had me worried." Greg grinned, then pointed with his head, "the guy went in there," indicating one four-unit above-ground structure with exposed poured-cement basement walls at street level looming before them. "I'm told his flat happens to be in the oldest un-refurbished unit in the back. Upon the request of a personal friend, I came here this morning to see it for myself."

"Yes. 'Nothing like first-hand evidence,' I always say," Sherlock reminded the Inspector. "Not even I can deduce the answers without sufficient data."

"Well, here's more data for you," Lestrade pointed to the top of the broad cement stairs, "See up those steps. _That_'s the main entrance for all tenants."

"And the door he was last _seen_ entering," John acknowledged, giving Greg the courtesy of his full attention.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was still more typically disengaged in what seemed like peripheral data gathering, but Lestrade knew too well, his sharp ears were listening.

"Yeah, that's the only door. Last seen going in at half two." Lestrade scratched his head thoughtfully, attempting to remember details from the report. "I'm told the renovations in three out of the four flats have taken nearly half a year. Like I said earlier, the back unit, the man's flat, has _not _been renovated. So far, only the front flat has been rented, and the other one is about to be, whilst the renovations in the third is nearing completion. Supposedly, the updates have made the units more spacious with multiple bedrooms."

"People were waiting for him?" Sherlock's flat voice belied the keen interest John has seen earlier when Lestrade had texted them for help.

"Not _people_. One person. Amy Sanders, a girl, young lady, twenty-one years old. You know the sort: generally average in weight and height, dresses down her looks, part-time student and part-time wait staff. Identified herself as a friend, not yet a _girl_friend, in her words."

"Hmm. The average sort…not yet girlfriend…," Sherlock pressed his index finger vertically against his lips and tapped softly.

Lestrade had learned from John to gauge how far Sherlock retreated into his Mind Palace by counting the number of these lip-taps, one of several quirky tics he subconsciously manifested during intense concentration; the longer the consulting detective lingered in quiet thought, the longer the tapping continued, the deeper the challenge.

"What about _other_ doors?" Unexpectedly, Sherlock made a quick exit from his Mind Palace.

_Three taps? Apparently whatever he needed to store or retrieve was easily located_, the DI surmised. _As if he dropped the thought and ran back out._

"Yes, those were checked out." Greg was in a good mood he wanted to preserve. Being well-informed about the incident so he could field _all_ questions from the consulting detective was the only way to keep everyone happy. "Listen, Sherlock, this should make you happy."

"That's still to be determined."

Sherlock's pointed remark, dripping with sarcasm, had raised a slight grin from John, Greg noticed. _It's on purpose!_ _The bastard likes amusing John with his smug asides._

"Really, listen, guys!" Lestrade pressed. "The report was clear about the series of footprints in the hallway. With all the plaster dust from the ongoing construction that coated the entire corridor, the occupants' foot traffic was easily traced. Pretty simple really. Front tenants were out early in the morning, along with the flatmates before the work began. The plastering and sanding work occurred after they had gone. The film of plaster dust couldn't have been more perfect to track the comings and goings of the remaining occupants—the workmen and the missing man. No footprints led to any of the other exit doors or into the cellar. According to the job site records, the work crews (footprints showed them exiting by the front door) actually arrived at another site by 13.00 on Friday. So, just as the girl said, his were the last footprints to go all the way down the hall and into the flat…no sign of him coming out after that."

"_Where_ exactly was she standing outside waiting, this _Amy Sanders_?"

"After she watched him enter through the door, Ms. Sanders decided to seek shelter, ducked under the stairwell over there," Lestrade pointed to the mustard yellow brick-sided structure that offered protection, "…'cause it started drizzling. Heavy rain looked certain. That's why the guy went to get the umbrella."

Sherlock revolved 360 to view the surrounding apartment complexes in relation to the street and the apartment. After, in swift strides, he positioned himself under the stairwell where Lestrade had indicated the young woman stood for shelter from the rain, and watched the circling flight of the house sparrows that were momentarily disturbed by his sudden presence. By the time John and Greg arrived, having followed at a more normal pace, the sparrows had returned to guard their nests under a brick causeway.

"Not _yet_ a girlfriend. So _why _was she _here_?"

"Sorry?" Greg obviously felt Sherlock was sidetracking the line of inquiry even though he well knew the consulting detective's methods; Sherlock preferred re-creating a panoramic view of the case. Too narrow a focus would lead to missed clues.

"Not-yet-a-_girl_friend would not just walk all the way _here,_ when there are _perfectly _suitable meeting spots at more populated locations on Stockwell Road, like _Day Lewis Pharmacy_ or the _Cafe Madeira…. _ You didn't mention there were _two _sets of footprints going into the flat._"_

"And _two_ coming back out. Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock," Lestrade interrupted with an obstinate shake of his head. "You're not suggesting Amy Sanders had anything to do with his disappearance?" Even with scarce evidence, Lestrade was convinced the girl had not been involved in any wrongdoing.

"I am certain she had nothing to do with his disappearance, just her association with the missing man may not be as 'not-yet' as she wants us to suppose."

"How does that matter? The last set of prints goes into the flat and doesn't come out. Is there anything you can tell me that's relative to how he might have gone missing?"

"Everythin_g_ is relative," Sherlock corrected him brusquely. "To get to the 'how' we should ascertain the 'who' and the 'what.' So, here we have a twenty-three-year old man. Part-time student in a flat-share. One of four probably, all males. Ideal location for Victoria line and Northern line. Flatmates are _still_ away, I presume, for a weekend holiday?"

"Bloody hell! Why am I not surprised you presumed correctly with so little to go on?" Lestrade grinned despite himself. "This you got just by viewing the _exterior_ of the building?"

John said nothing, although he was plainly impressed.

"Know your city, Lestrade." In rapid-fire pronouncements, Sherlock explained: "In SW9, flatshares make it affordable….seen adverts like this all the time, for part-time students and hospitality workers, that sort of thing. As I understand this situation, it's clear these renovations are ongoing…so there are few if any other neighbors to help gain access. Likely, the tenants, flatmates and workmen were out when not-yet-a-girlfriend Amy was invited, _specifically_ affording the young man and woman time alone. They were probably just going out for nourishment when he went back to retrieve an umbrella and 'poof!' vanished. The fact that, the police were called over twenty-four hours later _(last night?)_, and the foot traffic to the back unit was not disturbed by returning flatmates; I ask you, what might be the reason for their extended absence? A holiday!"

Whilst speaking, the consulting detective had been inspecting the building façade, poking at the underside of the stairs with a small precision tool he removed from his wallet, and noting the flight of several hundred house sparrows toward the back of the unit. "I can only _imagine_ the havoc wreaked on the evidence—complicating the footprints—when the police made _their_ visit!" He finished with his eyes trained on John and waited.

"Well!" John exhaled, glancing down to refrain from expressing his obvious admiration out loud, and slowly turning to Lestrade, he lifted his head. "So you say, this young man….did you give us his name?"

What John had missed by looking down, Lestrade had not: a satisfied smile flickered across Sherlock's face at John's reaction. "No, John. I didn't. His name is Jimmy Phillimore. How's it you hadn't deduced _that_, Sherlock?"

"Don't be ridiculous. In this case, it's irrelevant." It was said with disdain, but Sherlock's smug expression changed, and he hesitated. Silently, he inputted something into his mobile as Lestrade and John continued their conversation.

"Jimmy Phillimore just went back into his own flat to get his umbrella and no one has seen him since?" The doctor cocked his head whilst processing another thought. "What did Amy do, Greg, when Jimmy didn't come out? Did she try ringing him up?"

Sherlock paused and looked up from his phone, waiting for Lestrade's reply.

"Gave him twenty minutes, a considerably patient young lady, and then called him. That's when she remembered that she was wearing_ his_ jacket, over her own."

"Huh? Oh I see." John nodded. "His phone was in his jacket pocket."

"Yeah. As the weather changed, she felt a chill. Her light coat wasn't enough, so he offered her his jacket."

"Not yet a girlfriend, but Jimmy had good _intentions _about Amy. An act of _kindnes_s and an act to _impress_." Sherlock noted aloud. "Curious Amy forgot she was wearing his jacket. This is because….the fit was familiar? So Jimmy must not be a big man. Probably slight build …hmmm, say slender, and no more than 1.63 meters; he is either a consummate gentleman or insecure about his looks. Possibly both."

"So, she _says_," Greg continued ignoring Sherlock's addendum, "she waited at least another twenty minutes for a bright spell, after the hard rain had finally let up. Before leaving, she walked up these stairs and—"

"—rang the doorbell to his flat." Sherlock interrupted. "Not-yet-a girlfriend _didn't_ have a key."

"No answer. She was really getting worried or annoyed; she wasn't sure what to think. She hoped he wasn't ditching her—"

"Hmmm. So Amy's insecure, too. Whilst it certainly is immaterial to the case, perhaps she is a suitable match for Jimmy," Sherlock mused.

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow but otherwise disregarded Sherlock's remark, "—but when the police got access and had a look, there were no signs of trouble, nothing out of place…a real conundrum, if you ask me."

"Precisely why you needed to ask me. It is _not _a conundrum." Sherlock rebutted. "And I _haven't_ gone in to have a look, yet. How long did she wait before she left?"

"Okay, Mr. High and Mighty, that's why you're here. I'll give you that!" Despite his retort, Lestrade took Sherlock's customary rebuff in good humor. "To answer your question, she waited a_nother_ twenty minutes. Did I mention she was _patient_?" Casting a sideward glance toward the doctor, the Inspector used soft humor to elicit a soft laugh from John, but Sherlock was impervious to such nonsense. "She realized it was pointless to wait for any flatmates to show up (Jimmy had told her they were on holiday for the weekend), and she didn't know when the other tenants might return. That's when she decided to go home and wait for him to call."

"Whether or not they had exchanged numbers—since they were 'not yet' in a relationship," John drew some conclusions of his own, "I guess he could call his own number if he had access to someone else's phone." John paused. "But, he never called?"

"Nope. Amy started reaching out to mutual friends to tell them what happened. The more she talked it over with others, the stranger it seemed. Those who knew Jimmy well enough said it didn't sound like anything he would do. He was a considerate guy."

"Girlfriend or not, it took a while for her to contact the authorities." Sherlock gazed up the steps and slowly started to climb, inspecting the mortar of the brick sidewalls with unusual interest and thumbing another search into his mobile.

"Yeah. True." Lestrade followed the consulting detective, leaning back to talk to John who remained one step behind. "After all was said and done, she decided to call her uncle, a friend of mine—retired—a good bloke Tom is—for help. He checked out her particulars and contacted me."

Once they all reached the main door to the complex, Lestrade removed the pass key from his jacket pocket and slipped it into the lock. "Now, Jimmy's been missing for nearly thirty-two hours. As I've said before, it's not a crime scene. Flatmates have been contacted. They deny knowledge of his whereabouts. There is no obvious foul play that we can determine. So I've brought you here this fine Sunday morning to find the young man who disappeared trying to get an umbrella for his girlfriend."

"Not-_yet_ girlfriend…!" Sherlock corrected.


	2. Chapter 2

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Sherlock had been right. A crisscross of police footprints down the long corridor within the flat had made the scene nearly indecipherable to Greg and John. Attempts to sweep up and clean areas by the front door also obscured the trail. Wordlessly, Sherlock spread his arms, a movement enhanced by his dark coat that resembled the flapping of great black wings, to restrain his companions from treading farther down the corridor and contributing to the chaos. Quickly, the detective stooped to examine and note the style of shoes and trainers that had used the passage prior. When he stood, he seemed agitated, and nodded to the DI and the doctor that he was ready to continue to the back unit.

Lestrade was not, however. Where they stood near the front door, as they waited for Sherlock to examine the footprints, they overheard muffled sounds of happy chatter along with breakfast aromas of coffee, sausage, and eggs, emanating from the one occupied flat. The DI decided to knock. When he did, the chatter stopped abruptly.

"Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday," pushing himself in front of his companions, Lestrade leaned against and spoke through the closed door as he pulled out his official identification." I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade with the Met. Just have a few questions."

Hushed conversation behind the door suggested the occupants were viewing them through the fisheye lens of the peephole. Cautiously, the door opened a crack as far as the chain would allow, and a blue eye appeared to examine the identification the DI held for inspection.

Standing silently behind Lestrade, John noticed Sherlock checking his phone and fidgeting with impatience. He also saw the detective's face crack a slight grin, likely triggered by the authentic ID the Met officer had produced. John had witnessed Sherlock flash a copy of the DI's ID—he had pickpocketed when Lestrade annoyed him—and use it on several investigations. Whilst the doctor did not approve of the deception, he had wisely decided it was a matter between the DI and the consulting detective. He would not interfere.

"Lestrade," Sherlock whispered with great certainty. "They're not involved. This is wasting precious time."

The door of the flat swung wide to reveal a married couple in their mid-thirties. Besides the wedding bands on their fingers, John observed what he perceived to be an ordinary man with thinning dark hair; Even with minimal makeup and her unkempt, ash brown hair pulled back in a clip, his wife was naturally pretty. Somewhere in a room farther back in the flat, their toddler happily babbled gibberish.

The Met Detective Inspector, albeit off duty, fell into routine. "Thank you. Just need a minute of your time. Last night, you talked to the police about the man who went missing Friday afternoon, your neighbor Jimmy Phillimore," Lestrade pointed to the back unit. "According to the report, you were both at work on Friday, but do you have a child-minder who might have been here at that time?"

"I take her to a day nursery," the wife responded, darting her blue eyes behind to where the little girl was giggling over a toy.

"We told the police all this yesterday," the man stated, his tone lukewarm. "We don't really know the guy; Pleasant, lives with three others. We recognized him from the photos. He's the shortest one. We've heard them call him 'Hobbit,' although I know he's more than 1.65 metres, but his flatmates exceed 1.8…. Actually, we've only been here for two months, so we really can't help."

"Let me assure you, we do not suspect foul play, but did you hear anything unusual?" Lestrade persisted.

"No. We hadn't _heard _anything." The man insisted looking at his wife, who nodded her agreement whilst her tongue poked inside her cheek.

"You heard _absolutely _nothing?" Sherlock challenged, not concealing his suspicion that he considered their noncommittal answer blatantly false. "Not a _peep_, not a _squeak_, not a _clanging _of water pipes?"

"Well, nothing out of the _ordinary_." The woman corrected, shifting her eyes to her husband for support.

"What is _ordinary?_" Sherlock glared at the woman who seemed to shrink under his stare.

"All we've heard is the baby!" the man protested protectively. "Her crying keeps waking us up."

"I think it's the cats," the wife asserted. "Alan, remember the other night? Some feral cats started up again and woke Sandra. Howling things! Since we're new here, I hesitate to start complaining, but it was particularly unsettling, and lately, there have been all kinds of racket at night in the back units. We were told when we moved in the disturbance from the refurbishing would be minimal…but maybe, Inspector, you can log our complaint with the Management."

"I am not a building inspector…" Detective Inspector Lestrade began to explain with a shake of his head when he was distracted by the rush of movement behind him.

"Sherlock!" John shouted and Greg turned to look.

Black coat billowing, Sherlock was running down the hall. "Lestrade, John! Now!" he called and stopped at the last unit demanding, "Open _this _door!"


	3. Chapter 3

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Stepping through the flat door was like straddling a time portal.

To one side of the tiny foyer the three men viewed a typical kitchen, WC, and several bedrooms tucked behind, but to the other side was a great room, unlike anything they had ever encountered before in a modern structure. Three of the four walls in the high-ceiling room were contemporary, smooth in featureless modern style, but the _fourth_ wall, the focal wall, appeared to be a relic from a previous age in its resemblance to a Victorian parlor. Elaborately carved crown molding lined the ceiling, old-styled and peeling floral wallpaper covered the entire wall that was dominated by an overly large and unusual fireplace, complete with brick hearth and massive chimney, topped by a marble mantel. It protruded an astonishing metre-and-a-half into the room and was flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookcases, partially filled with the books, trophies, and assorted bric-a-brac.

"Oi! What's this?" Eyes widened in disbelief, John looked past the eclectic, untidy, and somewhat dorm-like furnishings of sofas, armchairs, and desks to the massive feature beyond. "Looks like this flat swallowed a small Victorian house …or at least one wall with a fireplace! How can this be?"

"If it's not a violation of building codes, that's gotta be_some_ waiver down at the Department of the Built Environment," Greg agreed with astonishment, "to permit this."

"Don't hear anything, do you? Obviously, the couple's complaint about noise waking their toddler could have been Jimmy calling for help," John looked around at the odd décor. "Yeah, this flat's disorganized, but nothing seems to suggest foul play."

To Sherlock, there _was_ obviously fowl play.

Upon entering the flat, Sherlock had immediately gone to the fireplace. A folded umbrella lay on the floor nearby. Squatting to inspect the grates, damper, and scattering of bird droppings, he began poking furiously at the firebox floor.

"Lestrade, call for _Confined Space Rescue_ and an ambulance!" Sherlock shouted urgently. "Thirty-two hours is overly long…. Assist me, John! There should be some kind of pry bar around here."

Without questioning the consulting detective, Lestrade called it in, whilst Sherlock and John combed the flat. A cast iron screen, matching the size and dimensions of the fireplace opening, had been set to the side in front of one of the bookcases. On the floor in front of the other bookcase were bicycles, sports equipment, weights, and piles of mismatched trainers and socks. Among these John found, much to his great surprise and relief, what Sherlock expected they'd find—the closest approximation to a pry bar, a tyre iron—which the detective quickly grabbed and wedged into a slender floor gap within the firebox floor.

"It's a trap door, John!" Sherlock explained, leveraging the iron against the narrow slot but failing to pry it apart. "It's been opened recently. There aren't enough bird droppings…! Here, you try!" He handed off the tyre iron to John and thumbed another search in his phone, while John struggled without success.

"Arggh" Sherlock yelled at his phone impatiently until the search yielded results.

"Service Units are incoming, Sherlock," Greg joined them at the hearth, adding wryly, "but, if we don't find our man, we'll look to be off our trolley and they'll take _us_ all away instead."

"A man's life is at stake, Lestrade!" Sherlock snapped irritably as he scrolled through the hits from his search, keeping his eyes focused on his mobile. As if unaware he was speaking out loud, he muttered more softly to himself, "an actual human life… do you _care _about that at all?"

John was taken aback. He had spoken those same words several months ago in a moment of frustration and fury when Sherlock had seemed more engaged by The Game with the bored genius Moriarty than about the victims.

Emotionally charged statements—especially about caring—were out-of-character for the self-professed high-functioning sociopath, who dismissed sentiments, claiming that such emotions clouded his judgment on investigations. "_Will caring about them help save them?" _Sherlock had replied at the time. Whilst the doctor understood the need to be clinically detached and impartial when dealing with emergencies, a good practitioner also needed to show sympathy. Sherlock did not seem to agree then. Had something changed him since?

John had little time to wonder what influence could have softened the hard-hearted detective, because a sound caught the doctor's ear. "Wait! Shhh. I hear something!" John froze leaning his head into the grand fireplace and listening. He peered above, catching a glimpse of sky, and saw the old, unused chimney was alive with colonies of chirping house sparrows nesting securely in the thin layers of dry, crunchy creosote. Then he heard it again. "Sherlock? I think I just heard a moan."

"Aha!" Sherlock bellowed at a video on his phone, and rushed to the mantel above where John was squatting in the large firebox. "John, for your own safety, slide out of the firebox and stay on the hearth."

Standing at his full height before the mantel, Sherlock fingered the underside of the marble piece, carefully gliding his hand along the carved raised wood panels until he found what he sought. "Okay, now John, where you are kneeling on the hearth—not inside the firebox itself—reach up and put your hand on this panel with the rose carving; then, when I tell you, lean forward on it as if you are checking out the birds in the chimney."

Lestrade watched the two at work, speechless, though his mouth hung open with anticipation.

"Now, John!" Sherlock commanded.

With unwavering trust in his friend's instincts, John leaned forward, his hand propped on the conveniently located rose panel, and pushed slightly.

A one-metre square piece of the firebox floor dropped out suddenly on quiet hinges, exposing a gaping black chute that disappeared into darkness below.

Before the trapdoor automatically shut again, they each heard, from the depth of that blackness, a soft moan.

Then from outside the flat, they heard the frantic sound of police and ambulance sirens wailing.


	4. Chapter 4

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"So, how'dya do it, Sherlock" John asked, not unexpectedly, as they stood in front of the trick fireplace.

Sherlock suppressed a tiny smile when he heard the question. The doctor was always fascinated by the logic behind each of his solutions, and it gave him keen pleasure to explain his deductions to such a receptive audience—perhaps the only_ genuinely_ receptive audience he had ever had the good fortune to encounter. Yet he held off answering John's question because the clamor of Met technical service and ambulance teams gathering their equipment was too disruptive and bothersome. He wanted to savor John's reactions without distractions when he recounted the details.

The emergency had clearly past. Jimmy Phillimore was alive, although incoherent, dehydrated, with a broken arm, sprained ankle, and a slight concussion, when technical services rescued him from the coffin-sized space beneath the Victorian fireplace. Once he was extracted by the crews through a false wall in the basement, IV lines and heart monitors were attached, and he was rushed off to hospital.

Displaying a broad grin, Greg shared the news with the partners who remained in the victim's flat. "There's hope." The DI assured them. "He's in serious condition, but generally the consensus is he will pull through. We found him in time, thanks to you. Great job! It's always a _good feeling_ to know you've helped people!"

"Good to hear, Greg!" John responded with a reciprocal grin, but Sherlock frowned and walked off.

"Sherlock?" John watched his partner wander away, deep in thought, and let him go. "Hey, Greg, with your permission, we'd like to stay to study this contraption, fireplace, whatever you call it, a little more, okay?"

"Permission to examine the site," Greg's spirits were soaring, "just make sure the flat is secure when you leave." Lestrade gave the doctor a cordial handshake goodbye. "Sherlock," he called after the consulting detective and followed him across the room. "You'll have to tell me how you figured it out. Come in tomorrow. I'll need your statements to complete the report," Lestrade added grinning as he gently punched Sherlock in the shoulder, not caring how the sign of affectionate relief would ruffle his aloof consultant.

As the DI and Met teams dispersed, their excited banter and shouts could be heard all the way down the hallway and out the front door of the complex. At last, when the flat grew quite, Sherlock remained in introspective silence with his eyes closed.

"So, are you going to tell me?" John stood with his arms behind him at parade rest, staring at the unusually reticent genius.

"Hmm?" the light grey-blue eyes opened.

"How you figured it all out?" John leaned forward, an encouraging gleam in his eyes.

"A Parlor Trick."

"What?"

"I have often said, John, 'It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Inevitably, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.' You and I both know a man cannot really disappear into thin air. Yet, when Lestrade invited us to investigate, I needed to gather the facts as he presented them to us. And as he did so, it became perfectly clear that, notwithstanding a hidden escape route from the flat, the man could only be in the flat. Those were the facts as I understood them. In this case, there is _nothing_ more deceptive than _overlooking_ this obvious fact. Once I was certain he was in the flat, it was a matter of determining how he could be there and not yet be seen. The fireplace was unanticipated."

"You searched with your phone several times. For what exactly?"

"When we arrived on the scene, I saw the infestation of the house sparrows and checked their habits. House sparrows generally occur in flocks, often quite large ones, outside the breeding season. Breeding is mainly in loose colonies of ten to twenty pairs. Their nests are typically built in artificial or natural cavities or crevices, sometimes even in moving machinery or in the depths of coal mines. Each year, they produce two or three clutches of three to six eggs…"

"Wait, Sherlock, how is this relevant?" John's brows contracted in confusion.

"Bird droppings are acidic and can quickly corrode building materials. Significant damage has been done by nesting and roosting birds that inhabit building crevices and leave behind enormous amounts of debris and droppings. Their feces not only cause structural damage, they carry any of sixty transmittable diseases…."

"And this was a problem because…," the doctor redirected his friend's lecture.

"If the missing man…."

"Jimmy Phillimore," John interjected.

"...were still in the flat, then might there be some damage in the old unit that could have caused him to fall through a floor or wall and somehow be undetected. Could the birds' droppings have been the cause of structural damage? True, it was conjecture, an outside consideration, it was, however, a possibility I had to consider, but I never expressed it as fact."

"So the birds didn't have anything to do with it?"

"Actually they were helpful," Sherlock continued. "The birds proved what I suspected. Once I saw the unused fireplace, the inconsistent pattern of bird droppings, and recognized the protective cast-iron cover had been recently removed—"

"—Recently?"

"As it was no longer a functioning fireplace, the room's heat would have escaped up the open chimney during the cold winter weather unless it was covered. I can only presume the flatmates removed the cast-iron cover and insulation over the firebox with the tyre iron a few weeks ago…spring fever? It's what guys do. Whatever their incomprehensible reason for the deed, they seemed unaware that the open damper had been rusted in place, allowing generations of birds to drop debris freely all this time —quite an accumulation, if you notice." Sherlock pointed to the layers of fresh debris that coated the filthy floor of the firebox. "The flatmates didn't seem to care all that much since they left the cover off."

"Okay, I follow you so far."

"Good, John. Here's where it gets interesting. Without knowing _who_ he was, I would still have correctly deduced he was in the fireplace structure, but as you can see, breaking into it was another matter altogether. I was _wrong_ to feel his name was irrelevant. It was the key to opening up his prison."

"So you searched on your mobile…?" Following every word, John demonstrated his full attention, with nods and asides that filled in the events from his own perspective.

Observing John's response was an intangible that Sherlock nevertheless enjoyed about the 'grand reveal.' Invigorated by his partner's keen interest, he continued. "Fortunately, the Phillimore family has a history—yes, one that I_ swiftly researched_. At the turn of the century, they had been associated with carpenter guilds that worked on stage sets, and by the early 1910s, for the film industry. Phillimore craftsmanship became renowned for elaborate and realistic set designs. Fast forward a decade or two. Success brought wealth and prestige to the Phillimore name, allowing them to expand their interests. The previous owner of this apartment complex _(before some upgrades were made in the late seventies)_ was Gareth Phillimore, a wealthy producer. After WWII, he had this actual Victorian Parlor from _Phantom of Shooters Hill Castle_— a B-movie—disassembled from the movie set and reassembled to fit and become a functional fireplace within his private suite, right here in this building."

Standing close to the ornate monstrosity that carried such historic significance, John listened, fascinated by Sherlock's unfolding narrative.

"Ownership of the building changed hands within the Phillimore family; interests waned. The building, this flat especially, was leased by outsiders for private parties over several years. Then set designers were given permission to alter the fireplace once again. The Phillimore estate conceded to the request of a business man who wanted the movie set's functionality, such as trap doors, below-floor chutes, escape hatches, and secret hideouts restored on the structure. It was the mid 1960s, and he was launching a business venture called _Parlor Tricks_. This enterprise became a successful entertainment establishment that hosted magic shows, séances, psychic readings, all manner of hocus pocus, along with some illicit activities. Finally, after scandals came to light, the place was closed down, but not before scammers had pilfered untold savings from the bereaved with false promises of contacting the deceased. Some cases are still pending in the courts….."

"After that bad history, it's lucky this contraption wasn't dismantled ..." With interest and appreciation, John glided his hand across the marble mantel.

"Not luck. Law. About ten years ago a legal dispute over the Victorian fireplace went through the Department of Built Environments and into the courts. Somehow, the historic fireplace was given a reprieve, grandfathered in, it seemed."

"Look how detailed these engravings are!" Leaning and stooping to inspect the wood panels, John was only half-listening to his partner, his attention significantly distracted by the antique. "It is a remarkable piece for a movie set. Shame it's been left derelict."

"True. _Sooooo sad._ But completely inconsequential, John, to the points I am trying to make!" Sherlock clicked the 'K' sound sharply, dismissively, with a manipulative whinge, obviously upset, like a jealous child, that he had lost his audience.

John stiffened. He had no tolerance for manipulation, nor could he ignore his friend's self-indulgent rudeness. How would the antisocial genius learn from him if he let it slide like everyone else? Without giving Sherlock the benefit he had heard the cutting remark, he tightened his own voice with mild sarcasm and muttered. "_We have _ART_ in order not to _DIE_ of the TRUTH._" He waited another moment before he cut a glance toward the _insulting_ detective.

Puzzled, Sherlock paused, unable to process John's remark, although he recognized the frown lines and creased forehead on the doctor's face.

"I'm quoting Friedrich Nietzsche," John's tone was chilly, "in case you're wondering." He imagined his friend's thoughts, cascading from one level of understanding to another, falling from the brilliant heights of Mt. Olympus to the valleys of human sentiments where mere mortals resided. Letting out a sigh, the doctor shook his head, "Maybe you actually do thrive on uncovering every last truth no matter how ugly or inevitable, but sometimes life throws us an opportunity to find the beauty, too. You see, Sherlock, sometimes we _need _to escape the truth, maybe just for a little while. A soft, very human sentiment, I grant you, but this fine woodworking and craftsmanship is remarkable. It doesn't hurt to take a moment to appreciate it."

Disquieted, Sherlock darted his eyes toward the hearth, thoughtfully. After a moment, a wry smile of understanding appeared. His voice became gentle, mannerly, nearly apologetic, and slightly teasing, "It is indeed a fine specimen of woodworking and craftsmanship, John, but the _truth_ is: a man nearly _died_ in this '_art_.'"

John's amused grin, a signal of improved humor and forgiveness, satisfied Sherlock. "May I continue now?"

The good doctor gave a conciliatory nod.

"You see, John, Jimmy Phillimore, great grandson of Gareth Philimore, holds the primary lease rights and moved in a year ago with flatmates."

"Didn't inherit his family's talents, I take it."

"Seems not, which may have indeed caused this near tragedy. I suspect on Friday, when he came to get the umbrella, he was distracted by the noises of the house sparrows in the chimney and leaned in to look. As you saw, if you knelt in the wrong spot and touched the specific panel, it would open the trap door. I believe the slight-built Jimmy Phillimore made that fateful mistake, and plunged headlong into darkness, before the doors closed over and sealed him in."

"Ahhh! An accident. If Amy Sanders hadn't been expecting him, his flatmates, once they returned from holiday, may not have realized he was in trouble until it was too late."

"Or until they smelled something," Sherlock added frankly.

John wrinkled his nose at the disturbing possibility. "So, you don't think he knew about the trips and levers to work the fireplace?"

"Likely not. If he had known about them, wouldn't he also have known how to trigger the escape hatch to get free, the way the tricksters did when they hoodwinked the gullible patrons?"

"Okay, so tell me." John grinned with enthusiasm and tapped his own temple. "Your Mind Palace? Is that how you figured out the mechanisms?"

Sherlock hesitated, averting his eyes, and sighed. Returning his focus to John, he admitted truthfully. "I _didn't_ figure them out. But I did the next best thing." A smile climbed to his eyes. "I watched the old movie scene on YouTube. It showed how they opened the trapdoor."

A stunned expression on John's face dissolved into chortles and outright laughter that doubled him over as he blurted out. "Watched it on YouTube!"

Sherlock joined him with his own wide grin and hearty laugh until the cathartic release tired them both. John was still chuckling and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, well after Sherlock had recomposed himself.

"He seemed _pleased_." The baritone introduced a new topic.

"Who?" Sniggers and snickers had not fully abated.

"Lestrade, I mean, seemed pleased."

"Oh, yeah, Greg. He ought to be pleased. So should you, mate!" With his fits of laughter at last subsiding, John nearly leaned a stabilizing hand on the intriguing fireplace panels to stand up, but quickly thought better of it. It would be foolish to touch anything, lest another surprise be sprung upon them.

"Well, I am _pleased_," Sherlock hesitated, "but not, perhaps, for the _same_ reason as Lestrade."

This surprise statement that sprung from his partner caught John's full attention. John noticed his partner seemed suddenly bothered by ...something. _Misgivings?_ "What? Not the same as Lestrade's? Why? What was _your_ reason for being pleased?"

"I am p_leased_ I was _correct_." Sherlock cast his eyes past John to the Victorian wall, and squinted at the peeling wallpaper.

"What do you think was Greg's reason?" John looked in the same direction as his friend, with his arms behind him, and rocked gently on his heels.

"Lestrade was pleased because, as he stated in his own words, it was for him a '_good feeling to know you've helped people_.'"

"Oh?" John tilted his head, sensing his partner was experiencing a breakthrough, a new level of awareness that was, perhaps, unsettling to him.

"I'm not _ordinarily_ motivated by humanitarian impulses... as you and he are."

"Dunno. What ordinarily motivates anybody is usually a mix of reasons," the doctor shrugged. "Even if your primary incentive is to solve the mystery, your goals are usually the same—to resolve the problem and help others, generally for the greater good."

Eyes down, the consulting detective mulled over his partner's words.

"Right! Okay, maybe you _do_ have to foster an awareness of this 'good feeling' that results from helping others a bit more than you have up to now," John acknowledged and paused to recall Sherlock's words spoken earlier: _A man's life is at stake…do you _care _about that at all?_ Had he caught a glimpse at Sherlock's heart unsheathed? Was Sherlock developing a sense of compassion for others? Offering his friend genuine encouragement, John smiled, "But, today, Sherlock, seemed like a pretty good start."


End file.
